


i do it so it feels like hell

by bYeFeliciaah



Category: The Flight Attendant (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Season/Series 01, soft, some trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:13:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29288871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bYeFeliciaah/pseuds/bYeFeliciaah
Summary: “You wouldn’t be able to patch me up, would you?” Miranda grinned, every bit faux, teeth bared almost threateningly.Miranda Croft, on her sofa with a stab wound, wasnotCassie’s idea of a steady recovery.
Relationships: Cassie Bowden/Miranda Croft
Comments: 15
Kudos: 45





	i do it so it feels like hell

**Author's Note:**

> I’m still working on my madam spellman fic but Miranda Croft would not leave my head okay?
> 
> cw for some blood, injury and alcoholism.

_ Dying  
_

_Is an art, like everything else._

_I do it exceptionally well._

-

Fixing herself up, unsurprisingly, turned out to be _a_ _ lot_ of fucking work. It was the subtle things; like the silence of her new apartment at night—well, more like, the noises outside in contrast to the static emptiness of her room. The cars passing by, laughter, drunken chatter; the stuff that indicated the world was moving along outside, splashed in colour, a moving picture of paint, whilst she sat in the darkness and wondered if she’d ever be like the strangers she saw fleetingly. 

The only comfort was the thought that they were flawed too. One night, she might’ve been an image of perfection as somebody watched her from their window as she stumbled down the street on the arm of a man she’d just met, the pavement blurring, lights distorted as she tried to walk straight but couldn’t quite get a handle on it.

And there was that, the deep emptiness somewhere between her chest and stomach. A ravenous pit, craving the soothing taste of alcohol like a leech thirsting for blood. Some nights it consumed her and she had to almost physically restrain herself from making the walk to the nearest liquor store. She’d made sure to find an apartment far enough away from one that was glaringly obvious, on the off chance she had a blip in her loneliness and it called out to her like a devil on her shoulder.

But, there was also her brother. Davey; warm, caring, supportive—everything he’d lacked in his childhood. He called to check in on her regularly, visited more often, brought the girls. Annie, too, made sure to be around her constantly. Max there more often than not. Even Shane met her for oysters and non-alcoholic drinks, and slowly she felt herself moving towards normalcy. Even with Megan’s absence a stark difference to her usual overbearing presence. 

Still, there was a nagging sense of things left unfinished, and the nights at her window were the worst. 

It was a process. A long, shitty process. 

It was looking to be one of the nights where she could barely keep a grip on everything around her. First, she had a difficult passenger on her flight back to New York, the Karen type. Then Annie got pissed at her for some reason or another, something about not respecting boundaries, and how walking into her apartment at all times of the day when she was fucking her boyfriend wasn’t acceptable, and– it’s not like Cassie knew they were going to be fucking at that particular moment. Maybe if she hadn’t chosen an open plan with a shower right in front of the door, then maybe the boundaries would be clearer. 

Not to mention the dude on the way back who’d borderline harassed her in a way that had her thinking back to the hotel room, Buckley—or, Felix—staring down at her with a twisted glint in his eye. 

It was a total shitshow and she had to physically plug her nose as she walked past the bar a couple streets away from home, face turned away in the efforts to block out the sight. 

Heather, the old lady that lived below her, flashed her a smile as she walked into her complex, a comment about the weather. It was grounding enough that she could make it upstairs without crying or turning back to the bar. Still, she was violent as she shouldered open the door after fumbling with her keys, dropping her bag on the floor and kicking her heels off. 

It was as she was slipping off her coat that she noticed a smear of red on her entryway wall, suspiciously hand shaped. Instantly, her guard was up, hands shaking as she rushed to place her keys between her fingers like that would help her in anyway, realistically. 

Her breath came out stuttered as she hesitantly walked into the living area, gasping at the figure draped over her sofa like a limp doll. She could tell who it was, instantly, by the hair. “Jesus-  _fuck_ ,  Miranda, _what_?”

Her neck was arched over the arm of the sofa so she could look at her, upside down, tresses of hair dangling over the edge. “Hello, Cassandra.” It came out rough, strained as she flashed her a grimace. 

“What is going on?” Rushing over, she stopped as she saw the bloody palm resting against Miranda’s side, shaking beneath the pressure of pressing into her wound. Cassie couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped her lips, hand coming to rest over her mouth as she took in the blood and felt herself slipping. Mind tugging at the edges as she thought of Bangkok and all the shit that followed. 

“You wouldn’t be able to patch me up, would you?” Miranda grinned, every bit faux, teeth bared almost threateningly. Cassie wondered if she could possibly smile without an air of danger about it. 

“What the fuck, Miranda? You need a doctor,” She dropped to her knees, trying to see where all the blood was coming from. “The hospital.” 

“ _No_.”  Her eyes flashed, deadly, as she mustered all her strength to shake her head. “Just stick a bandage around it, would you? It’s not fucking rocket science.” 

The distinct pinch of her own nails against her palm helped centre her thoughts as she frantically thought over her next move. “There’s so much blood.” It sounded pathetic, panicked as she traced over Miranda’s hand as if touching it, seeing it against her own skin—red, stark, wrought with the feel of death—would somehow give her any idea of what to do. 

“I’m quite aware of that. So, if you could hurry.” 

“Right, right, okay, bandages.” Standing abruptly, she hurried to her bathroom, swinging open the cabinet door, barely giving her reflection a glance before sweeping her eyes over the contents until they landed on a first aid kit. Leaving the door open, she grabbed a towel and jogged back, dropping again to her knees. 

Miranda was shifting, face contorted into a deep frown that accentuated the lines in her face. 

“Can you lift up your shirt?” 

When she took her hand away, a gush of blood spilled down the fabric, and it took everything in her not to look away. Quickly she pulled up the material, revealing a large gash beneath her ribs. 

“Holy shit.” Hands shaking, she brushed around the cut, watching as Miranda grinned impishly, tinged at the edges with pain. 

“You should’ve seen the other guy.”

Carefully, she folded up the towel, pressing it against the cut with force, watching as Miranda sucked in a sharp breath and scowled. Cassie wondered if she’d have her throat slit before the end of the night. “We need to stop the bleeding,” She offered up. Whilst she’d had first aid lessons to be a flight attendant, knife wounds weren’t usually anticipated after security. “I think you need stitches.”

“Just stitch it up with thread,” Miranda spoke through grit teeth, voice catching. “Superglue it, I don’t care. Just get it to stop bleeding.” 

“I can try to stop the bleeding and patch it up with  _bandages_ , but you need serious medical attention, Miranda,” Her voice was stern, despite the slight waver when blue eyes flashed dangerously, meeting hers head on, Miranda’s short fuse somehow visible beneath the surface. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

A tense silence followed, interrupted by Miranda’s sharp breaths, and the sound of traffic bleeding through her windows. 

Cassie studied the woman before her, taking in her sharp cheeks and furrowed brow. Lips parched and muscles shaking—something she didn’t even think Miranda was aware of. It was the least composed she’d ever seen her. And after months of no contact, it had her off-kilter. 

“Do you need some water?” Cassie’s voice was small, frightened, like a little girl at her daddy’s funeral. 

“Yes, thank you.” She sounded surprisingly...polite, gaze flitting to Cassie’s face briefly before dropping back to the towel. 

A moment alone in the kitchen was the reprieve she needed to control her erratic heart rate and compose herself. She gripped the edge of her sink, fingers turning white as she left the water running and tried a breathing exercise her therapist had shown her. It seemed to be failing her, probably because the times she usually used it were from minor inconveniences, or panic attacks she’d been dealing with for years. This– this was a flash right back to everything she wanted to forget. 

“How long does it take to pour a glass of bloody water?” Miranda yelled, breaking through the panic induced fog, almost as if she felt vulnerable, alone and injured in an unfamiliar home. Maybe, she was just impatient for a drink. The reminder that somebody was currently bleeding out on her sofa, a physical manifestation of her mental anguish, it tethered her to reality. 

Filling up a glass on her draining board, she switched off the tap and took a few careful breaths before scuttling back to the living room. 

The blood had began to seep just slightly through the top layer of the towel. Miranda looked faint. 

Reaching for the glass, Miranda glared as Cassie shook her head, gesturing for the woman to lift her head. When she did, she brought the glass to her lips, ignoring the glare she sent her. “I’m not a fucking invalid.”

“Just let me help you,” Cassie pleaded, sighing as Miranda conceded and rested her mouth against the rim of the glass, watching her all the while as she carefully tipped it. 

When she withdrew, tongue sweeping over her lips to gather the sheen of water on them, Cassie placed it on the floor, leaning back on her heels. 

Glancing at her sofa, she wondered how hard it would be to remove the traces of blood. If it’d stick to the surface, interwoven with the fabric and fusing with the thread. If she’d need a new sofa altogether. 

She wondered, then, why Miranda had come to her. Why she was even in this situation. Shouldn’t she be off on some Mediterranean island with her huge wad of cash? Didn’t she have creepy connections with people who actually had degrees in medicine, or were top-notch heart surgeons? 

It was all so confusing and messy, something she thought she’d left behind. Annie would be livid. 

Miranda shifted, lifting up the corner of the towel to peak at the injury. “I think it’s stopped– or, slowed.” 

“Let me see.” Reaching for the towel, fingers brushing over Miranda’s wrist—cold and brittle—she studied the gash, gaping slightly, edges clean. The blood had slowed considerably, so Cassie made quick work of unraveling the limited supply of bandages she had in her flimsy first aid kit, urging Miranda to sit. 

She groaned as she moved, eyes watering. Her palms were clammy where they gripped Cassie’s forearms for support, head drooping against her shoulder. Her breath was quick against her skin, stuttered and shaky, and Cassie allowed her to rest there as she began winding the bandage around her abdomen, pulling it tight and wincing as Miranda groaned or whimpered against her flesh. 

There was a lump in her throat, thick and hard to swallow, but she persisted until the bandage stopped and she could secure it. 

Miranda was hesitant to lie back once she’d finished, nails digging into her skin. Cassie helped her lay, rolling her eyes as she muttered something about being babysat. Her hands were coated in blood as she held them before her, trembling in her lap. She could feel her mind retreating once more, sight blurred, before Miranda’s fingers curled around her palm. She looked up, blinking as she offered a hesitant smile—like it wasn’t something she was used to.

Inhaling sharply, she squeezed Miranda’s offered hand, fingers searching for a pulse over her wrist. It felt weakened, faint. 

“Why did you come here?” It came out as a whisper, eyes searching her for more signs of violence. There was a rip in her jacket where a blade had caught the fabric, and a growing bruise on her side, the opposite side to her wound. Her cheek was a harsh red, the hint of blue flesh around the edges.

Miranda’s eyes were surprisingly clear and holding a depth to them past ‘mysterious lady who tried to murder me’ deep. The sort laced with human emotion as she swallowed, considering Cassie closely. “I didn’t know where else to go,” She admitted, painfully honest, before clearing her throat. “And I was in the area,” Waving offhandedly, her gaze flickered around the room. 

Cassie realised she was still holding her hand, floored by the raw honesty. Miranda was cold and standoffish, detached—what she portrayed merely a construct (unless it was rage, that was quite authentic  _and_ quite frightening). Here, perhaps softened by injured delirium and/or shock, Miranda was...just slightly warmer. 

“How did you even know this is where I live?”

She smirked then, a hint of the woman Cassie was familiar with, “Are you really asking me that?” 

“Right,” She laughed, a little awkwardly, finally detaching her hand and sitting on it. She was still knelt beside the sofa, her legs beginning to cramp. 

Settling into a sitting position, she watched as Miranda shifted onto her uninjured side, cringing with the movement. 

“Are you okay?” 

“I’ve been stabbed, I’m not dying,” She grumbled, an irritated frown tugging at her lips. Her accent was thicker like this. Like she didn’t have enough energy to form her syllables carefully. 

Cassie wondered how long she’d lived in Scotland. If she had childish dreams as a kid about being a nurse, or an astronaut, or if she came out of the womb brandishing a knife. She thought, from her disgust when describing Felix, she was probably a normal kid. Probably the type who came home with scuffed knees and bruises. She wondered if she would’ve been the type to protect a kid from having their money stolen, or would’ve done the stealing. Or if she just kept to herself. 

More prominently, she pondered how Miranda had become whatever it was she did for a job. An assassin? A...smuggler? A- Cassie didn’t even really know what it was she did, besides being scary and occasionally killing people. 

“Are you done staring at me like I’m about to break? Jesus Christ.” Cassie looked down at her knees at the harsh tone, “I’ll be leaving soon.” 

Shooting her a surprised look, Cassie instantly shook her head, inflicting some force into her tone. “No.” 

Miranda raised her eyebrows, tilting her head challengingly. 

“You should rest. You’ve lost  _a lot_ of blood,” She reminded, slightly exasperated as Miranda simply blinked. “Please.” 

She turned thoughtful, a series of emotions passing across her features, most prominent; hesitance and distrust. Why Miranda, the murdering, pathological liar, would distrust her: a flight attendant, was a mystery. “Only for an hour or so, just so I can get back some strength,” She relented, to Cassie’s relief.

Helping her get settled was, predictably, quite hard. Miranda didn’t want her to fuss, preventing her from helping take her coat off and grumbling as Cassie checked over the bandage, noticing a few more scars on her abdomen. She certainly didn’t linger on the definition there, just...it was shocking to see scars like that, jeez.

She vehemently turned down the offer to sleep in her bed, and scoffed at the blanket she produced from her room—the only one she owned. Fine, if she wanted to rest without comfort, that was on her. It wasn’t her responsibility to, like, make her comfortable. Nor was it her responsibility to help her out, but she wasn’t a shitty human being, so (at least– she liked to think she wasn’t). 

“I don’t want you hovering around me like a fucking fly,” Miranda warned as Cassie looked over to her for the fifth time after scrubbing her hands and bringing a book into the living room. There was some blood on her clothes, but she’d wanted to wait for Miranda to fall asleep, just in case she slipped through the door. She tried not to dwell on why she cared so much. 

Holding up her hands, book deposited in her lap, “No hovering, I promise,” She said defensively.

“I can feel you watching me. I can’t rest if you’re stifling me, eh?” 

So, she might’ve hovered a little. Even when she left the living room to gather some clothes and place everything back to where it had been, she found herself craning around doorframes to check on her. 

It was only when she’d gone to shower that she didn’t, but her mind was still on her, watching as blood she’d missed gathered on the shower floor and reminded her of Bangkok. _No_ , she wasn’t comparing this to Alex. This was completely different. 

By the time she’d finished, dressed in some worn pyjamas, Miranda was sleeping. It was the most relaxed she’d seen her all night, chest rising and falling steadily despite the slight tension residing in her features. Her lips were slightly parted, hair covering half her face. Cassie might’ve brushed it out of the way if she didn’t think Miranda had like, ninja senses, or something, even whilst sleeping and weak from losing blood. 

She looked vulnerable. Her slight frame, delicate, curled up on the sofa, a protective palm resting over her bandaged side. Her face was paler than it had been when she’d first arrived, and Cassie hoped that by the morning (if she stayed that long) she’d have a little more warmth to her. 

Despite the circumstances, Cassie quite liked the thought of seeing another dimension to the woman. Something small and, dare she say, fragile. 

Perhaps it was a twisted thought to have. 

Draping the blanket over her carefully, she settled in the armchair with her phone, glancing between the two every so often. The screen blurred and stretched whilst the image of Miranda remained steady.

It was when she woke up, neck cramping as she slumped over the arm of the chair that she realised she’d fallen asleep. Her phone was curled into her side with her arm, mouth dry. It held a resonance with early mornings, waking up after drinking herself to sleep. 

The blanket around her felt heavy, and with it, she realised that the sofa opposite her was empty, the only trace left of her the blood, dark and dried up. 

Her blanket smelt faintly of gunpowder and metal, the part closest to her face a slight perfumed smell, something deep, like bergamot and jasmine. 

Cassie sighed, the distraction of caring for another person ebbing and leaving a familiar sense of emptiness. 

She blamed it on being alone. Not Miranda’s absence specifically. That idea would bring a whole new host of complications that Cassie could do without.   


Still, she kept the blanket close, wondering if Miranda actually listened and got herself seriously checked out. Wondering if she’d ever see her again, or she’d become just a memory, like Alex, distant and simply a symbol for a life she desperately tried to separate herself from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the first chapter was okay. I started writing this last night and finished it this afternoon so it might not be my best!
> 
> lmk your thoughts :)


End file.
